We met a boatman on the sand
Where river folk are seen
His leathered brown and wrinkled face
Told where smiles had been.
The North Shore and its mystery
Sketched out with battered hand
Those early days dark history
Of tribes and settler bands.
He talked of all the craft that plied
From Massouds to Cootharaba
He talked of Huon pine and teak
Of pitch and rigs and spars
He conjured up these boats by name
Seaworthiness that could be relied
To get you safely home again
Across bar and hunting tide.
He yarned of how the ferry ran
When swathed in river mist,
The party boats all lights and noise
The contents mostly pissed!
He raised the ghosts of Couta boats,
Clinkers from southern lands,
The evening shrieks of lorikeets
And pompous pelicans.
He fondly spoke of all the joy
A boatman’s life delivers
The all-embracing sunset falling
Golden on the river.
Crab pots and brittle mornings clear
His love of fishing as a boy
His scruffy mates and ice cold beer
So much, so simple to enjoy.
A question came then from my wife
“So have you lived here all your life?”
His grinned reply I’ll not forget
“All my life? Well no – not yet!”
